The Unwept
by HegemonVII
Summary: A story about an elite group of Spartan IIIs who are only ghosts in so much conflict. When ONI finds an important piece of equipment missing, The Unwept are commissioned to handle it. no dialogue, just war. takes place several years after Halo 3.


The old, weathered metal creaked dangerously under the Spartan's boots. He shot a look at his two comrades, who understood him without seeing through his gold visor. The flight of ancient stairs curled around the courtyard of the building, leading them into the heart of the little facility on the abandoned planet. It was just another hollow remnant left from the Human/Covenant war, long decayed by wind and rain. Vines crept here and there into the fading bricks, ripping the building apart slowly. There was no one here, and there hadn't been for years.

The first Spartan III eased down the steps, trying hard to make as little sound as possible. The steel groaned with weight, but he continued. His frame was light and he walked softly. As he looked to the ground, he thought of where he had come from so long ago that it was a bitter and distant memory. Even the name of the planet evaded him, but his name was still fragile a whisper echoing somewhere in his mind. Among the other Spartans he was called Scribe, SSM22125. That was familiarity, and familiarity mattered. His hands gripped his MA5b closely as he descended.

The next Spartan was taller and bigger and held a sniper close to him. He knew that in a tight space like this, it would be of little use. He kept it close anyway. His EVA armor was mottled green and black and trailed with strands of burlap. Instead of the standard gold visor, his was a solid black and contained all the extras for special mission sniping. Hege SSM77116 was quiet and cautious, at took great care in his work. It was his art and skill.

The last was bigger yet. For now, he cradled an SMG in one arm, but was far more used to the feel of a rocket launcher. Such heavy weapons were not permitted on this mission, unfortunately. He went by Stratus SSM544544. He was funny and relatable, and the other Spartans admired these rare qualities. His light personality made him many friends, but on the field he was furious and quick, and loved his grenades.

Scribe's boot clicked against wet stone as he left the last step. Hege came down second, scanning the courtyard for hostiles. Stratus descended with heavy steps and two crisp clicks of weapon safeties sliding off.

It was a different sort of mission this time, but then again, that's why they were called. SSM stood for Special Missions, a division of ONI (Office of Naval Intelligence) commanded so high up the tier that they became legendary ghosts. Only two people knew their movements and what they were called for. The group consisted of about fifty elite-trained Spartan III super soldiers, each highly trained and skilled for any job that came their way, and this was one heck of a job.

Apparently, two weeks ago ONI woke up to find one of their new toys missing, and the panicked calls went higher and higher until one well-dressed executive said he'd take care of it. This is how he did it, by calling Team Alaoutos. They would do all the dirty work. He would get all the credit. All the Spartans in SM spoke Greek fluently. It bonded them to have their own language, and assisted in the secrecy of their missions. This team was called The Unwept, because when they fell in battle, no one would even know.

This mission was so secret that even Alaoutos didn't know what they were after. When the orders came down the line, the description was "you will know it when you see it." Alaoutos didn't have the luxury of asking why they had to be armed if it was just a recovery mission. They just did what they were told. The dim signal from the equipment's signature led them here, and they were sure as hell going to get it.

Stratus opened an old metal door that lead to dark hallway, then Scribe and Hege walked silently in. Water dripped somewhere in the dark and echoed in the empty walls. The trio quickly flipped on their night vision and scanned to room. There was nothing in here, and there hadn't been for a while.

The walls were made of fading white tiles, but the floor and ceiling were plastic. Some discarded medical equipment and documentation told them this was a hospital at one point, quickly abandoned when the Covies landed. Their footprints sounded like deep drums in the silence as they walked ever-closer to the missing ONI equipment.

The team turned a corner and saw more remnants of a terrible war. The entire hallway was filled with plasma-scarred bones and crushed skulls. It was likely that whoever couldn't get out of the hospital in time was rounded up here by Brutes or Elites or Jackals or some other Covie ugly and slaughtered. All the members of Alaoutos were too young to fight in the war, but definitely old enough to remember it. Those were confusing times, but things have changed. Now it was back to good old fashioned human versus human fighting, and the Spartan IIIs were happy to do the job the Spartan IIs left them.

Hege was walking ahead when he held up his hand. Scribe and Stratus stopped instantly and listened. Hege gestured to his scanner and pointed to a door across the hall and gave a thumbs up. What they were looking for was in there.

Stratus went in first, holding his SMG ready to kill, but was followed swiftly by Scribe and Hege. They walked into the middle of a very dimly lit U shaped room and looked around intently. The room was lined with tile cold tile and metal. The drains on the floor must have lost their function long ago since there was an inch or so of water on the ground. One side of the room was lined with toilet stalls, and the other lined with shower heads. Somewhere, water was dripping monotonously.

The water fled in rippled from the Spartans feet as they spread out to search for the equipment. Stratus headed to one side of the room as Hege and Scribe went for the other. Stratus felt uneasy as he started to look. ONI intel said he would know it when he saw it, but why couldn't he see it? He looked all around the room, but didn't see anything, so he turned his attention to the water. The water started as clear rain, but dribbled down from the dirty roof, picking up debris from every floor before it landed in this dirty, rat infested room. Maybe the equipment was just under the water. Stratus started to feel around.

He ran his hands along the floor, searching for something that wasn't supposed to be there. Stratus was good at finding things that didn't belong; an important skill for battle. The ripples glided silently over the surface in perfect symmetry up until one point. Stratus frowned, thinking that it was odd that the water would move that way. He stomped his foot down and looked closely as the ripples outlined the shapes of two invisible footprints.

In an instant, Stratus threw a punch toward the outlines, and his fist struck solidly on twisting metal. He saw it all in slow motion: the metal fragmenting around his fist and spreading outward in a menagerie of dancing fragments. From the point he hit, the cloaking failed and he could finally see the equipment he needed to recover. Standing a foot taller than he was, and much, much wider was a new sort of Spartan suit. It looked vaguely like the Spartan II MJOLNIR armor, but was bigger, bulkier, and sustained shields and invisibility. The emblem on the chest said ONI SpIVpr. This was a prototype Spartan four, and he wasn't taking orders from ONI anymore. In an instant, the figure was invisible again, and Stratus was thrown through the wall and into the other side of the room where Hege and Scribe were searching. They looked down at him as he squeaked out a single word: _cloaked_.

Both Spartans spun around and pointed their guns into the darkness. Hege gestured toward some phantom ripples, and the team let the rounds fly. The bolt on Hege's sniper clacked back four times, each shot making furious contact with the rogue Spartan. Its shields withstood the 70 caliber rounds with shocking ease. Hege felt the sniper ripped from his hands and slam into his visor, throwing him against the wall like a plaything. He fell dazed in the filthy water. Scribe sent round after screaming round flying into the dark even though he was unsure of where the thing was. He suddenly felt himself picked up by the helmet with two overwhelming hands. He could feel the pressure increasing as the Spartan IV pressed against his head. His visor was beginning to crack when Stratus' shotgun barrel clinked against seemingly invisible air and fired.

The force of the blast momentarily destroyed the shield and sent the rogue off balance. Stratus threw an SMG to Hege to replace his damaged sniper. The three squeezed their triggers and sent burning metal toward the invisible target, hoping to make it fall. Finally, the last of their guns clicked empty, and the Spartans looked around. They lost the rogue again. Hege gestured to where the shadows gathered in one corner, and they could see soundless ripples emanating from it. They began to load new magazines into their guns when they heard a deep, haunting laugh. In the corner they were watching, the team saw the bright glow of fizzing energy. They immediately recognized it as the same glow that came from the swords elites would carry during the war, except this blade was smaller, stemming from the wrist of the now visible Spartan IV.

Alaoutos team shouldered their weapons and fired again. The hot brass fell into the water and steamed as they slowly walked backward. The rogue ran forward, lead bouncing and shattering harmlessly off of his impenetrable armor. He thrust the blade toward Scribe, who caught the wrist with both hands just inches from his visor. The Spartan IV pushed hard against Scribe's strength, and although the Spartan III pushed back with all he had, the blade moved ever closer. Scribe's visor display began to fail and turn to static as the energy disrupted it. The tip pierced through the visor with ease, and stung his eyes with amazing heat.

Just then, Hege jumped on the back of the rogue, pointing a shotgun at the base of his neck. He fired five punishing shots at point-blank range and shattered both shield and armor. He then slammed the stock into the joint of the helmet and neck plates, hoping to dislodge it. The Spartan IV then grabbed Hege's leg, picked up the discarded sniper, and thrust the barrel through his abdomen. Hege fell to the ground and began to thrash in the water. With a swift kick, the rogue Spartan cracked Hege's neck and his body went limp.

Enraged, Stratus jumped on the rogue's back and tore off its weakened helmet with all his strength. He jumped back with it in his hand. Scribe had a brief look at the Spartan IV's scarred and deformed face before he raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed down the deserted halls. The two Spartan IIIs watched as the rogue fell to his knees, then splashed face down to the floor, staining the water red.

Stratus gave a grim look to Scribe, who returned it. They looked at the bodies of the two Spartans, and understood both of them in some way. Stratus clicked the radio call button that gave the signal for a pelican to pick them up. A quiet ding signaled that there was one on approach.

Stratus watched as Scribe shouldered Hege's body. They both knew that Hege would not be remembered or revered or wept for. His parents didn't even know he was still alive. This was the life of a Spartan: train, fight, die. They knew it, and they would someday become a part of the long list of killed Spartans. They were just whispers in so much shouting, even though their actions would be heard the most.

Soon that well-dressed executive will stand in front of ONI and proudly say he retrieved their missing equipment. When they pat him on the back and ask "How the devil did you do that?" He will look back and say, "Now, you know I can't give out details on those missions!" then he will smile and have another drink.

But for now, Hege's blood trickled down Scribe's green armor as he struggled under the weight. Stratus clicked five more shells into his shotgun and nodded to Scribe in the darkness. They both understood that, and it said more than anyone else ever could: Spartans never die. The two walked out of the building and faded into war.


End file.
